ow savages, when they saw one of
the tribe better than themselves, would kill him and eat him to make
themselves as good as he. I liked that fine, Marcella. I was bitter in
those days."

"Horrible!" said Marcella with a shiver. "I like to think of the Last
Supper, and the Holy Grail--mother used to read about it all to me--she
used to tell me all about Parsifal and the Love Feast."

"Yes, little Rose was wiser than those books. Ye see, Marcella, it
seems to me there is a time when ye're led by something inside ye to do
things. Like Christ was led to preach, though perhaps he didn't quite
know why. The word was taken out of his mouth--and like I was led to yon
barrel. Things come out of you, right out of deep inside you. Maybe
they're God, maybe they're a beast deep down." He paused, and moved
impatiently. "It's hard to piece thoughts together when you're weak. Can
you finish my thought for me, Marcella? It's getting muddled--down under
sand and stones like Castle Lashcairn under Lashnagar."

Marcella hesitated. Then she told him Wullie's idea about the path.

"He says other things beside God walk along our lives, but in the end
God's footmarks burn out all the rest."

Andrew nodded again and again.

"I suppose Christ was a pathway. I remember reading something about
that. 'My humanity is the path whereby men must travel to God,' but I'm
too tired to piece it all out."

"Yes. It says that in the Bible, of course. 'I am the Way--' Only I
suppose there comes a time when God has got to the end of you, and then
you're not a path any longer. And all that's left then is to give your
body and blood and get out of the way of others."

"Yes. I can grasp that. I feel that God has walked along me and all
the other footmarks have gone. Now, when I am weak, and hungering for
strength, He gives His body and blood. Yes, I think I understand
that--in a glass darkly. Some day I'll come to it more clearly."

That night, when he held out his hand for a cup of milk, Marcella
noticed that it was swollen like his feet; the left hand was bony and
flexible and still a little brown. The right hand was thick and puffed
and very white. When he stretched his fingers to take the cup she saw
that they were stiff and difficult to move. He shook his head and
dropped his hand on to the sheet, looking at it reflectively.

"The last lap is nearly done, Marcella. This poor old heart of mine will
be drowned very soon, now."

Marcella began to c